Realm
Scratching
Turning
Twisting
Modesto, California
Another dustbowl
Another dead-end
I remember Death Valley
Hans the German tourist
Orange juice and oatmeal
Sleeping
Walking
Gambling
Writing
Pissing
Shitting
Lancaster, California
Another pawnshop
Another dead man
I remember dry heat
Pony rides
Diamondbacks
Praying
Purging
Pandering
Wrestling
Waiting
Waiting
Charles
April 29, 2007
Sunday, April 29, 2007
day to day
walking across the bridge the other day
thought about diving, plunging, flying
not because I ever would
not because I ever could
walking across the bridge today
wind blowing on my face
cars hurrying by too busy to stop and smell the concrete
I felt tremendously alive
there were no constraints holding me back
no bars leveling the playing field by offering nothing
but isolation
I live in this body and no one else’s
in fact we’re all only renting until moving on
to another kind of summer house
I drank the glass of water that was half full until it was empty
I evaded responsibility until I had all the time left in this world
we must live and let live like it’s our last day on Earth
scraping the bone of our brains until the pencil bends than breaks
a thousand mirrors and not one reflection that makes any sense
a million impressions made and only the first one really counts
when my uncle died the only thing I took from his house was
Marlon Brando’s autobiography, when my best friend hung himself
I knew he was no longer committed to much of anything
there are no escape hatches
failsafe is never foolproof.
Charles Cicirella
April 28, 2007
(for Lynda Sams)
walking across the bridge the other day
thought about diving, plunging, flying
not because I ever would
not because I ever could
walking across the bridge today
wind blowing on my face
cars hurrying by too busy to stop and smell the concrete
I felt tremendously alive
there were no constraints holding me back
no bars leveling the playing field by offering nothing
but isolation
I live in this body and no one else’s
in fact we’re all only renting until moving on
to another kind of summer house
I drank the glass of water that was half full until it was empty
I evaded responsibility until I had all the time left in this world
we must live and let live like it’s our last day on Earth
scraping the bone of our brains until the pencil bends than breaks
a thousand mirrors and not one reflection that makes any sense
a million impressions made and only the first one really counts
when my uncle died the only thing I took from his house was
Marlon Brando’s autobiography, when my best friend hung himself
I knew he was no longer committed to much of anything
there are no escape hatches
failsafe is never foolproof.
Charles Cicirella
April 28, 2007
(for Lynda Sams)
"two minute whiplike threads of protoplasm"
I’m not afraid of the dark
Afraid of a demon reaching up and stealing my identity
I am my own demon, angel, transient being.
Duck ponds remind me of our love affair
As do promiscuous squirrels and Mediterranean food.
First time I rode a bike in over ten years was with you.
I’ll never forget how much you sounded like Howlin’ Wolf
Or Bob Dylan when he says, “thank you”.
You told me I was a bad writer and it cut me to the quick.
Not sure why your opinion means so much or why
I became so overwrought when you refused to listen.
Going to the library bittersweet since our breakup,
Checking my email nowhere near as exciting nor is
Talking about music or looking at clothes.
I was like a kid in a candy store when we first recognized
Each other at that ballpark on the outskirts of town.
I know you don’t understand what it is I’m doing or why my life
Is always in such a state of disrepair while I dispense of the rules
And go my own way. I want so badly to be a hero, a visionary, a
Romantic figure and perhaps I am or perhaps I’m not.
We stand alongside an infinitesimal number of golden rules
Praying we don’t break beneath the pressure or begin seeing
Ourselves through someone else’s eyes and all I want is to
Figure out how to not look back so I can move forward
Instead of sideways or backwards.
Charles
April 25, 2007
I’m not afraid of the dark
Afraid of a demon reaching up and stealing my identity
I am my own demon, angel, transient being.
Duck ponds remind me of our love affair
As do promiscuous squirrels and Mediterranean food.
First time I rode a bike in over ten years was with you.
I’ll never forget how much you sounded like Howlin’ Wolf
Or Bob Dylan when he says, “thank you”.
You told me I was a bad writer and it cut me to the quick.
Not sure why your opinion means so much or why
I became so overwrought when you refused to listen.
Going to the library bittersweet since our breakup,
Checking my email nowhere near as exciting nor is
Talking about music or looking at clothes.
I was like a kid in a candy store when we first recognized
Each other at that ballpark on the outskirts of town.
I know you don’t understand what it is I’m doing or why my life
Is always in such a state of disrepair while I dispense of the rules
And go my own way. I want so badly to be a hero, a visionary, a
Romantic figure and perhaps I am or perhaps I’m not.
We stand alongside an infinitesimal number of golden rules
Praying we don’t break beneath the pressure or begin seeing
Ourselves through someone else’s eyes and all I want is to
Figure out how to not look back so I can move forward
Instead of sideways or backwards.
Charles
April 25, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
CONGRESS BRIDGE (HEART SACRED HEART)
An Invocation – butterfly medicine – horn of plenty – she constructs her own ark with every stroke – no recycling – no petty jealousies or awkward silences – no fillers or artificial flavors – no sweatshops – no predators – no incest –
stop feeding on America the spectacle – America the brain dead – America the grotesque –
her painting purified – nothing profane or indignant – she refuses to rest on her laurels or settle for less -
we were in a room – heat and flames shooting up toward Heaven – her mouth filled with Bazooka bubble gum – mine stuffed with blue cotton candy – two children comfortable enough in their own skins to go down to the shore and dance in the lava –
I become a great explorer when gazing into her horse and buggy visions – into future Gospels no one but a fairy could have created – an Invitation – a well honed wake up call – siren of solitude – she controls nothing not even herself thank God
Charles Cicirella
April 21, 2007
(for Joni)
An Invocation – butterfly medicine – horn of plenty – she constructs her own ark with every stroke – no recycling – no petty jealousies or awkward silences – no fillers or artificial flavors – no sweatshops – no predators – no incest –
stop feeding on America the spectacle – America the brain dead – America the grotesque –
her painting purified – nothing profane or indignant – she refuses to rest on her laurels or settle for less -
we were in a room – heat and flames shooting up toward Heaven – her mouth filled with Bazooka bubble gum – mine stuffed with blue cotton candy – two children comfortable enough in their own skins to go down to the shore and dance in the lava –
I become a great explorer when gazing into her horse and buggy visions – into future Gospels no one but a fairy could have created – an Invitation – a well honed wake up call – siren of solitude – she controls nothing not even herself thank God
Charles Cicirella
April 21, 2007
(for Joni)
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The Grand Illusion
put the phone to your ear and wait for her call – wait for patriotism to stop breaking your heart – for the blood on our hands to disappear and for what the flag supposedly represents to mean something more than a dollar earned is another politician bought and paid for – all this posturing - speechifying – declarations for an independence no one actually lives and dies for unless that is you’re a soldier of misfortune sent to fight in someone else’s civil war – we’re all slaves to a corporate mindset doing too good a job wiping out the middle class
being forced to fall on our own swords over and over again until there’s nothing left but television static and chicken soup for more dead souls – we must learn to stop adapting so easily to a reward system rewarding only the haves and never the have nots - we must wake up and realize we’re prostitutes not patron saints
I’m not proud of the carnage piling up like crackling leaves in the name of America the beautiful – America the proud – America the dispassionate – America the profane – America the damned and forsaken – the bald eagle fed to a murder of hungry Christians in a coliseum of our own devising and despicable natures
The legacy being handed down to our children a legacy of fear and ignorance all too readily proven by the mistakes we continue making in the name of progress and staying the course.
Charles Eric Cicirella
April 11, 2007
put the phone to your ear and wait for her call – wait for patriotism to stop breaking your heart – for the blood on our hands to disappear and for what the flag supposedly represents to mean something more than a dollar earned is another politician bought and paid for – all this posturing - speechifying – declarations for an independence no one actually lives and dies for unless that is you’re a soldier of misfortune sent to fight in someone else’s civil war – we’re all slaves to a corporate mindset doing too good a job wiping out the middle class
being forced to fall on our own swords over and over again until there’s nothing left but television static and chicken soup for more dead souls – we must learn to stop adapting so easily to a reward system rewarding only the haves and never the have nots - we must wake up and realize we’re prostitutes not patron saints
I’m not proud of the carnage piling up like crackling leaves in the name of America the beautiful – America the proud – America the dispassionate – America the profane – America the damned and forsaken – the bald eagle fed to a murder of hungry Christians in a coliseum of our own devising and despicable natures
The legacy being handed down to our children a legacy of fear and ignorance all too readily proven by the mistakes we continue making in the name of progress and staying the course.
Charles Eric Cicirella
April 11, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Blue Heaven
There is a feeling – a feeling of remorse and resurrection – of redemption and merciful disintegration – you ask how mercy can exist when something is falling apart – you ask where is God when the shit really hits the fan and I answer God is not only in the details but is the details and we must all, including God Almighty, repent – the Son of Man every man, woman & child’s best friend and I can not wait till this storm passes and everything is put right or at the very least propped back up on the bricks it rests upon –
There is a lasting impression that lasts only so long before turning inside itself and returning beneath the red dirt – there is an important lesson in learning to self-protect rather than self-project all of your weaknesses and fears on this or that phantom or shadow – art, sex and God you pick the order doesn’t matter what does matter is this rite of passage to accept the humanity existing deep within and alleviating the stress and pressure by accepting who you really are and exactly why it is you’ve come this far –
Sunrises and sunsets hang around her neck like daisy chains of birth and death – a star child whose only purpose is to shine brighter than the sun and to never give up even when her race has been run – the obstacles and impassioned hysterics – the realization that you really are a Fairy Queen and that everything around you that has turned to shit must be taken in stride for you’ve been cast in a rebellious nature that can too easily become a prison or hospital and you know this to be true just like you know it’s not too late to excavate the canvasses covered in chosen paint from your mind’s eye and exhibiting them for all to receive – remember what Jesus said those who love & follow Him will never be accepted or understood or even protected from the approaching storm and still we must step lightly upon this new moon – this new landscape disguised as hell and in truth is Paradise –
the paintings which have been transformed from your crutch to a ladder to a crucifix call out for not another crucifixion but instead want for you to finally be healed – to heal yourself in the Oneness and the Glory of self love and self preservation – we have been called here in vast numbers to perform miracles – called upon to do His and Her work in the likeness of God – in the likeness of ourselves bent over in servitude and celebratory anguish – I see and accept the revelations in your ancient eyes now you must do the same – you must again get in touch with what has always driven you over the ocean floor and across the expansive desert –
a feeling like no other – the knowledge that Sainthood has never been the point and that we are not reckless no matter what the lions and slaves may think – we are romantics in the truest most literal sense of the word and yet titles nor labels nor our given names can sustain us any longer
Charles Cicirella March 18, 2007 (for Joni)
There is a feeling – a feeling of remorse and resurrection – of redemption and merciful disintegration – you ask how mercy can exist when something is falling apart – you ask where is God when the shit really hits the fan and I answer God is not only in the details but is the details and we must all, including God Almighty, repent – the Son of Man every man, woman & child’s best friend and I can not wait till this storm passes and everything is put right or at the very least propped back up on the bricks it rests upon –
There is a lasting impression that lasts only so long before turning inside itself and returning beneath the red dirt – there is an important lesson in learning to self-protect rather than self-project all of your weaknesses and fears on this or that phantom or shadow – art, sex and God you pick the order doesn’t matter what does matter is this rite of passage to accept the humanity existing deep within and alleviating the stress and pressure by accepting who you really are and exactly why it is you’ve come this far –
Sunrises and sunsets hang around her neck like daisy chains of birth and death – a star child whose only purpose is to shine brighter than the sun and to never give up even when her race has been run – the obstacles and impassioned hysterics – the realization that you really are a Fairy Queen and that everything around you that has turned to shit must be taken in stride for you’ve been cast in a rebellious nature that can too easily become a prison or hospital and you know this to be true just like you know it’s not too late to excavate the canvasses covered in chosen paint from your mind’s eye and exhibiting them for all to receive – remember what Jesus said those who love & follow Him will never be accepted or understood or even protected from the approaching storm and still we must step lightly upon this new moon – this new landscape disguised as hell and in truth is Paradise –
the paintings which have been transformed from your crutch to a ladder to a crucifix call out for not another crucifixion but instead want for you to finally be healed – to heal yourself in the Oneness and the Glory of self love and self preservation – we have been called here in vast numbers to perform miracles – called upon to do His and Her work in the likeness of God – in the likeness of ourselves bent over in servitude and celebratory anguish – I see and accept the revelations in your ancient eyes now you must do the same – you must again get in touch with what has always driven you over the ocean floor and across the expansive desert –
a feeling like no other – the knowledge that Sainthood has never been the point and that we are not reckless no matter what the lions and slaves may think – we are romantics in the truest most literal sense of the word and yet titles nor labels nor our given names can sustain us any longer
Charles Cicirella March 18, 2007 (for Joni)
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Intermediate Satisfaction
The first line is a life sentence – a pleasure dome – the rebel without a cause – Ochs wanted to be James Dean – who didn’t want to be James Dean in the fifties when everything was cooler and not taken for granted – in the beginning Genesis seemed like a good idea on paper anyway then God got smart so He sent His only Son down to Earth to sort through the mess and look how that turned out – Crucifixion is not noble matter a fact it sucks – why has thou forsaken me? truer words have not been spoken then tossed away like loose change or early morning mass – Jesus did not die in vain at least that’s the word on the street – I’m not joking trust me I’m not packing like Milton Berle – why do you think Marilyn Monroe was smiling? She’d had a piece of Uncle Milty before he got old & easily replaced by something younger & nastier – Marilyn also had had a piece of JFK & Robert Kennedy before they were snuffed out like a brush fire or unwelcomed advance – Phil Ochs walked out onto that Carnegie Hall Stage outfitted in gold lame delivering the message that Elvis like King still mattered no matter what idiotic people may choose or not choose to believe – belief is a funny thing it can change like the seasons or be resolute in its unfailing ability to shake things up like a belly dancer or belligerent drunk – the first line gets you to the next and the next after that just like one little white lie ties up every loose end by falsifying supposed truth over & over again.
Charles Cicirella
March 17, 2007
The first line is a life sentence – a pleasure dome – the rebel without a cause – Ochs wanted to be James Dean – who didn’t want to be James Dean in the fifties when everything was cooler and not taken for granted – in the beginning Genesis seemed like a good idea on paper anyway then God got smart so He sent His only Son down to Earth to sort through the mess and look how that turned out – Crucifixion is not noble matter a fact it sucks – why has thou forsaken me? truer words have not been spoken then tossed away like loose change or early morning mass – Jesus did not die in vain at least that’s the word on the street – I’m not joking trust me I’m not packing like Milton Berle – why do you think Marilyn Monroe was smiling? She’d had a piece of Uncle Milty before he got old & easily replaced by something younger & nastier – Marilyn also had had a piece of JFK & Robert Kennedy before they were snuffed out like a brush fire or unwelcomed advance – Phil Ochs walked out onto that Carnegie Hall Stage outfitted in gold lame delivering the message that Elvis like King still mattered no matter what idiotic people may choose or not choose to believe – belief is a funny thing it can change like the seasons or be resolute in its unfailing ability to shake things up like a belly dancer or belligerent drunk – the first line gets you to the next and the next after that just like one little white lie ties up every loose end by falsifying supposed truth over & over again.
Charles Cicirella
March 17, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
CHARGE
We begin here – right here – a cornerstone in our minds – our thoughts like strip joints – B-Movie actresses scantily clothed – I’m Fred Astaire or Tarzan – You’re Auntie Mame or Holly Golightly – I’m playing the harmonica on a train – on a floating cloud – Woody Guthrie down the line – the Bulls are hot on his Freedom Trail – Woody’s guitar a machine gun – fascists must be put to death in every century – just listen to how the strings react to his nicotine stained fingers – he ain’t just strumming – we ain’t just square dancing – take your partner – your best gal by the hand and run through the wild flowers naked – you are a flag blowing in the unarmed wind – you are a gun bereft of bullets – a conscience actually connected to a mind’s eye – another killer strung up by his or her flimsy alibi – another execution caught on a cell phone and spread across the Internet like a royal-straight-flush – she stared at her reflection in the knife – the knife did not flinch – I remember the corner butcher – the prize fighter who was not much of a prize and I feel replenished
full of apples and oranges
full of smiles and laughter
full of fruits and vegetables
full of golden tickets and pink sunsets
full of inter-dependence and outer perspectives
bathed in mystery and more mystery we must stand our ground
be it hallow or haunted, sacred or profane
it’s too late to back down now
Charles Cicirella
March 14, 2007
We begin here – right here – a cornerstone in our minds – our thoughts like strip joints – B-Movie actresses scantily clothed – I’m Fred Astaire or Tarzan – You’re Auntie Mame or Holly Golightly – I’m playing the harmonica on a train – on a floating cloud – Woody Guthrie down the line – the Bulls are hot on his Freedom Trail – Woody’s guitar a machine gun – fascists must be put to death in every century – just listen to how the strings react to his nicotine stained fingers – he ain’t just strumming – we ain’t just square dancing – take your partner – your best gal by the hand and run through the wild flowers naked – you are a flag blowing in the unarmed wind – you are a gun bereft of bullets – a conscience actually connected to a mind’s eye – another killer strung up by his or her flimsy alibi – another execution caught on a cell phone and spread across the Internet like a royal-straight-flush – she stared at her reflection in the knife – the knife did not flinch – I remember the corner butcher – the prize fighter who was not much of a prize and I feel replenished
full of apples and oranges
full of smiles and laughter
full of fruits and vegetables
full of golden tickets and pink sunsets
full of inter-dependence and outer perspectives
bathed in mystery and more mystery we must stand our ground
be it hallow or haunted, sacred or profane
it’s too late to back down now
Charles Cicirella
March 14, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
WARRIOR SPIRIT
Is this all there is – no I wont believe it – can not accept it – the code we are fighting for ancient – the sacrifice being made crucial – we were blind now we can see – our hands are eyes – a third fourth fifth eye sitting atop a human pyramid – we are not vanquished no matter the pettiness all around us – our voices a ladder to Heaven – to the waters above and beyond Heaven – I’m tired of the mumbling – the bullshit hanging down around everyone of us like a martyr on a cross – a thief or a Savior what’s the bloody difference when ends refuse to meet and false starts are all that seem to exist – I’m tired of walking on eggshells – tired of accepting the label of bum – scumbag – hobo – should I jump on the next train that comes along and ride – is oblivion hell or purgatory or is limbo in fact a paradise that for whatever reason suffers from bad press – I’m tired and I know you’re tired too – tired of happenstance – circumstance and taking a stand when too many people have their heads in the sand – sheep led to a senseless slaughter – ostriches sent to yet another oily war – our soldiers brave and yet they are being led astray – sent to fight by silver-spoon-aristocrats who could give a damn if they die or are maimed – we must stand up against our oppressors – realize that Paine’s Common Sense and Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience still very much exist today and are perhaps even more crucial than they were yesterday – paint - blood and the visionary fortitude to see beyond a landscape writhing in the flames of a patriotic state that no longer stands for anything but more tired coercive rhetoric – land of the free - bull feathers – pursuit of happiness – there is no such thing when it’s our own government terrorizing the state – I’m hungry for liberty – hungry for a comeuppance that must arrive before any of this is set straight – we all possess a Warrior Spirit – we all possess an internal clock that tells us what time it truly is – we must nourish ourselves – learn to nurture ourselves before it’s too late..
Charles Cicirella March 10, 2007
Is this all there is – no I wont believe it – can not accept it – the code we are fighting for ancient – the sacrifice being made crucial – we were blind now we can see – our hands are eyes – a third fourth fifth eye sitting atop a human pyramid – we are not vanquished no matter the pettiness all around us – our voices a ladder to Heaven – to the waters above and beyond Heaven – I’m tired of the mumbling – the bullshit hanging down around everyone of us like a martyr on a cross – a thief or a Savior what’s the bloody difference when ends refuse to meet and false starts are all that seem to exist – I’m tired of walking on eggshells – tired of accepting the label of bum – scumbag – hobo – should I jump on the next train that comes along and ride – is oblivion hell or purgatory or is limbo in fact a paradise that for whatever reason suffers from bad press – I’m tired and I know you’re tired too – tired of happenstance – circumstance and taking a stand when too many people have their heads in the sand – sheep led to a senseless slaughter – ostriches sent to yet another oily war – our soldiers brave and yet they are being led astray – sent to fight by silver-spoon-aristocrats who could give a damn if they die or are maimed – we must stand up against our oppressors – realize that Paine’s Common Sense and Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience still very much exist today and are perhaps even more crucial than they were yesterday – paint - blood and the visionary fortitude to see beyond a landscape writhing in the flames of a patriotic state that no longer stands for anything but more tired coercive rhetoric – land of the free - bull feathers – pursuit of happiness – there is no such thing when it’s our own government terrorizing the state – I’m hungry for liberty – hungry for a comeuppance that must arrive before any of this is set straight – we all possess a Warrior Spirit – we all possess an internal clock that tells us what time it truly is – we must nourish ourselves – learn to nurture ourselves before it’s too late..
Charles Cicirella March 10, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Elizabeth
Listen to her quiet calm
She sings like Hank Williams
Listen to her quiet psalm
Her prairie body embodies a Tower of Song.
I do not believe in ghosts
Precious memories rock a rocking boat
I do not believe in the power of myth
Raucous daydreams capsized this cruise ship.
The world is a glacier melting from the outside in
We are its passengers some imprisoned others set free by their faith
There are many marathons but only one true race to the finish line
When I looked into her eyes a paradise realigned.
Listen to her quiet storm
Never failing to amaze and excite
Witness her cowboy boots
Kicking up the dust of man.
Charles
January 27, 2007
Charles
January 27, 2007
She sings like Hank Williams
Listen to her quiet psalm
Her prairie body embodies a Tower of Song.
I do not believe in ghosts
Precious memories rock a rocking boat
I do not believe in the power of myth
Raucous daydreams capsized this cruise ship.
The world is a glacier melting from the outside in
We are its passengers some imprisoned others set free by their faith
There are many marathons but only one true race to the finish line
When I looked into her eyes a paradise realigned.
Listen to her quiet storm
Never failing to amaze and excite
Witness her cowboy boots
Kicking up the dust of man.
Charles
January 27, 2007
Charles
January 27, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
I Am Here
I Am Here
I am here
Fixed on the nothingness
Of a blank stare.
Job applications flutter
In the pinewood air
Needing to be filled out
Or tossed away.
I do not have a passport
So I can not escape to another country
My imagination bankrupt
Self evident truths no longer
A dime a dozen.
I barely remember the wheelbarrow
You pushed me around in and how
I once teetered on a cliff of my own devising
Finding it both reckless and romantic.
I am not here
In need of electroshock therapy or something
That would either jolt me in or out of this
Forced reality.
The world supposedly needs people like myself,
Dreamers who have never quite grown or given up
Lately though I am not entirely convinced me or
The world will ever see eye to eye.
When the nothingness all around becomes a
Comfortable blanket of hoarfrost and delirium
Is it time to pull the plug or perhaps get a new
Take on everything exhaled from your frozen
Heart and head.
Charlie
January 21, 2007
I am here
Fixed on the nothingness
Of a blank stare.
Job applications flutter
In the pinewood air
Needing to be filled out
Or tossed away.
I do not have a passport
So I can not escape to another country
My imagination bankrupt
Self evident truths no longer
A dime a dozen.
I barely remember the wheelbarrow
You pushed me around in and how
I once teetered on a cliff of my own devising
Finding it both reckless and romantic.
I am not here
In need of electroshock therapy or something
That would either jolt me in or out of this
Forced reality.
The world supposedly needs people like myself,
Dreamers who have never quite grown or given up
Lately though I am not entirely convinced me or
The world will ever see eye to eye.
When the nothingness all around becomes a
Comfortable blanket of hoarfrost and delirium
Is it time to pull the plug or perhaps get a new
Take on everything exhaled from your frozen
Heart and head.
Charlie
January 21, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)